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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114089">Clean Lines</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/charnelhouse/pseuds/charnelhouse'>charnelhouse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Enola Holmes (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Choking, F/M, Face Slapping, Rough Sex, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is a Mess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 12:09:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114089</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/charnelhouse/pseuds/charnelhouse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is still learning.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Clean Lines</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock is a quick study. He likes <em> this </em>type of intimacy - the question in the caress, the bone-thin line between violence and pleasure.</p><p>Here you are - spread out for him on his desk. The dark, cold wood that begins to warm under your ass.</p><p>His hands tighten around the ends of the tie wrapped softly around your throat. He circles and pulls until his knuckles go white and he is <em> learning </em> - understanding your limits and getting comfortable with doing the things that push <em> his </em>. </p><p>“Is this alright?” - delivered in that perfect, clear voice and his eyes are so round - blue as the china set your mother had given you. You widen your thighs so he can shift between them - moves <em> closer </em> - the edge of the table sharp under your ass. He’s already hard - harder than he’s ever been as he grinds against your cunt. You catch the clean, starched folds of his shirt - your fingers digging into his silky waistcoat. Barely a month ago - he couldn’t even grasp your hand without <em> asking </em>. </p><p>
  <em> Is this okay? Is this fine? Do you mind? </em>
</p><p>“Is this okay?” he urges - his forehead furrowing - the slight grimace at thinking he might be doing something wrong.</p><p>“Tighter,” you whisper - tongue stroking the demand - the plea. </p><p>And he <em> is </em>  a man of observation - of <em> wonder </em> and <em> improbability </em> - he marvels at how wet you are - at how he can feel you clench down on his thigh - the tighter he pulls at the tie - the wetter you get - the soft desperate <em> uh uh uh </em> that spills from your lips as he watches you - caught between both stunned and aroused - terribly <em> terribly </em> aroused </p><p>“Oh darling - look at you - it’s never been like this for me...” Sweat on his brow - on the fine arch of his cheekbone - the sharp edge of his jaw.</p><p>And perhaps he shouldn’t have said that - revealed too much since he’s always been alone - isolated - no wife or comfort and he’s never once realized that his body could do this for someone else - could make you fall apart all over him - could make you scream into the cup of his hot open mouth as he drinks you down. </p><p>“Let me...let me fuck you.”</p><p>The word itself sounds crude coming from him (with his restricting collar and his clean shirt and his <em> methods </em> ), but <em> god </em> that’s what he means to do - he wants to rut into you like an animal - he wants to spear you down on his cock and make you bite into the meat of his shoulder.</p><p>“My love - let me - <em> please </em>.”</p><p>You don’t reply - not with words - but hungry fingers as you slip a hand down his trousers - stroke him roughly with a smooth palm.</p><p>He tries to release the tie but you stop him - “No - I want it.” so he kisses you instead - tongue nearly buried down your throat as if he could devour you. He swells then - ripping at the rest of your lacings - lowering himself to suck at your nipple.</p><p>You wrap an ankle around the back of his knee to yank him closer. You ease him out of his trousers - thumb brushing over the weeping head - making him grunt - making him nearly collapse.</p><p>“Fuck me then,” you challenge - eyebrow cocked and smile bright. </p><p>
  <em> of course...of course </em>
</p><p>You hold all the cards here - you lead this dance while he learns and adapts - until he will grow bold enough to truly possess you without question or pause.</p><p>He buries himself inside you just as he pulls at the tie - tight and constricting and your eyes widen - a gasp from your mouth - an <em> oh  - </em> a soft, delirious <em> Sherlock </em></p><p>You didn’t expect that.</p><p>The room itself is silent except for the brief pop and crackle of the fireplace - the wet slap of skin and him <em> moving </em> swiftly inside you. Your hands scramble at the letters - the notes - on his desk - knocking a glass paperweight to the ground - spilling ink and he - so careful and obsessive over precision and clean lines and <em> order </em> - cannot be bothered. He fucks you as frantically as he can - well as frantically as he can without truly hurting you since his strength is something he does not quite <em> grasp </em> yet - he’s big - you’re not - and he savors pushing into you - wrapping you up with his full weight as you groan unladylike beneath him.</p><hr/><p>He recalls the first time you had told him to <em> smack </em> you. He’d been appalled and then reluctantly convinced that it would be <em> fine </em> - you’d enjoy it and so when he finally did - striking you across the soft globe of your ass - you’d shrieked - falling over his knee as he tried to steady you. Your nails digging into the meat of his thigh - the secret of a whimper spilling out of your mouth that you tried to hide.</p><p>He’d quickly turned you over and then he’d seen tears shining in your eyes and it burned something hot in his chest - makes his heart shatter.</p><p>“Did I - did I hurt you?”</p><p>You had bitten your lip - shaking your head as you attempted to smile - stroking his cheek - his hair - reaching for him before he could once again burrow away into the cage of his head. </p><p>“You just - I-I don’t think you realize how strong you are...it’s my fault - I should have...”</p><p>Again - he’s still<em> learning </em> and he - who prides himself on being smarter than the rest - on grasping concepts and practices within seconds - is frustrated that he is not yet <em> perfect </em> at pleasing you. The power in his muscles is still a mystery - still foreign. You push him to choke you - to strike you and break you in ways that should scare him but <em> don’t </em>and yet...and yet there are the times that he goes too far that he makes you cry out or bruise or momentarily lose consciousness and he can do nothing but brood - but go into his study and lock the door and refuse you when you beg him to let you in.</p><p>“It’s fine, Sherlock...I’m fine. Please it’s okay.*</p><p>He hates himself in those moments - hates what he has done and those moments become stretches of time where he realizes that this must be why he is alone. He has no friends...no companions...nothing but his books and tools and the cases that flood him with some form of miserable validation. Everything he touches turns to rot - he is incapable of getting close to anyone - he does not <em> think </em> like a normal person and therefore he cannot feel like one - <em> he cannot reach you </em>.</p><p>He is lost to it - overcome - head in his hands as he tries desperately to work through <em> this </em>. The strange, burning ache in his gut that won’t just leave.</p><p>Inevitably, you release him - always finding a way to pick the lock or climb through a window, which he never questions because you simply are <em> good </em>at getting into places you aren’t allowed.</p><p>You stare at him - square your feet - hands on your hips - with sharp eyes - tense jaw. </p><p>“I know what you’re thinking and don’t...stop it.”</p><p>And those words work their way into him - tunnel into his skin and heart and bones - the mass of his brain that has paved the road of his life since birth.</p><p>“Sherlock,” you whisper - sad and anxious now and <em> god </em>that cuts him, too.</p><p>He can do nothing but open his arms to you and you go - climbing into his lap and dragging him down to your mouth to kiss him senseless, forcing his eyes away from the bruises around your throat - the broken skin and blood vessels.</p><p>You mumble a thousand things to him - excuses - comforts - “You’re learning, love - you’re still learning.”</p><p>It takes time to break down his walls - to stop him from running away as soon as he marks you in a way that terrifies him. </p><p>But he does - inexplicably he <em> does </em> -  he begins to trust himself and always <em> you </em> - you have shown him how to dine on an intimacy that he never thought he could afford.</p><hr/><p>Here he is - back to himself - fucking you on his desk in a way that is near animalistic.</p><p>After a dozen - more than a dozen<em> trysts </em>- he uses the bulk of his strength to balance you on his cock while jerking at the tie around your throat. He does not thrust into you slow - but fast - rough and desperate as he gasps against your hair - as he gathers you to him so that your nose and lips are crushed into his chest.</p><p>He can <em> smell </em>you - the freesia - the English pea - your sweat and slick beneath it.</p><p>It becomes easy - the balance between pleasure and pain and weakness and strength and his loneliness has receded - slipped back into the shadows where the rest of his demons live.</p><p>You grab at his face - at the curls in his hair that refuse to stay back. Your voice is half-gone: “that-that feels so good darling...love...fuck don’t stop.”</p><p>And those words serve as a balm for his pain - for the insecurities that drift inside him loose and free.</p><p>This is what it means to be close to someone - to give yourself to someone - to give up the control and the sharp, clean lines he has lived by. This is <em> human </em>.</p>
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